Against Medical Advice
by Haelia
Summary: Sherlock is hospitalised for pneumonia and serious injuries after rescuing Lestrade, but signs himself out against medical advice, refusing pain management on the grounds that it could threaten his sobriety. NOTE: This is an epilogue to Chapter Two of "It's Called A Near Death Experience For A Reason". sick!Sherlock and doctor!John, bromantic. No intended slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the long-awaited epilogue to "Shock Blanket" (Chapter Two of my **_**Near Death Experience**_** fic). If you are confused as to the nature and origins of Sherlock's injuries/illness in this story, you may consult that one for more details.**

**Also, this is going to be a two-parter or possibly more. Originally I was going to do it as a oneshot, but I'm not done yet and am leaving for Chicago tomorrow for work. I will not have access to a proper computer while I'm there, so… I figured half was better than nothing, right? When I get back next weekend I'll post the rest. **

**Please enjoy!**

* * *

One. Two. Three. Four. Sherlock counts the steps as he navigates them at a painfully slow rate. He knows if he can just get up the stairs, then he'll be home, and he can lie down. He feels John's fingers in the small of his back and notices that he has stopped midway up the stairs. He needs a moment. John silently acquiesces. Only a moment ago the doctor had been raging about _against medical advice _and _do you know what that means Sherlock_ and _pneumonia is serious_ and Sherlock also thought he heard something about _tramadol_ but that would just be stupid. Now, though, now John is very quiet. He is also standing very close behind – Sherlock knows this is because John feels there is a very real danger of falling down the stairs.

Well, that wouldn't be so bad. He's only made it up four of them.

His chest burns with an all-encompassing fire – broken ribs complain at each inhalation, and every breath rattles deep in his lungs. Not to mention his whole body is just _sore_ from swimming in that damn river.

Which, by the way, was only two days ago.

John argued, of course, as Sherlock was signing the DAMA waiver, but Sherlock could not be convinced to stay in hospital any longer. John didn't want to admit it, but he agreed that there was every possibility that Sherlock's discomfort just from being in that place might compound his condition rather than improve it. Still, it went against his every instinct and he had told him so – "Sherlock, you need to be under the care of a _doctor_." A wolfish smile at this. _Haven't I got one?_ "I am not your doctor." _No, but you're _a _doctor. A better one than what I have here._

"Come on, Sherlock."

The detective snaps back to the present. John's hand on his back is gently insistent now. The stairway is drafty and Sherlock is swaying; best to get inside. Sherlock holds his breath and moves steadily up three more stairs. Stops for breath. Three more. A pause. Last stair.

Sherlock's vision darkens abruptly.

John slides a hand under his arm and steadies him. "Breathe," he reminds him, because Sherlock holds his breath when he's in pain. It's a natural response, autonomic, but most people eventually remember to resume respiration.

Most people also stay in hospital when they're told, but most people aren't him.

Sherlock takes a breath and his world bursts into dizzying colour. The breath hisses out through his teeth and he takes another. They're shallow breaths, and he never feels that they are enough, but anything more substantial causes the most exquisitely blinding pain in his side.

A hand at his low back again. John is pushing him through the door to their flat; Sherlock doesn't remember hearing him unlock the door, much less open it, but he goes through anyway. The door closes behind him and steady hands are tugging off his coat – "Ah!" – and he notices that his knees feel very unsteady. He weaves toward the sofa.

The journey from hospital to flat has exhausted Sherlock, but as much as he wants to drop himself bodily onto the cushions as is his customary habit, he refrains. That would hurt. A lot. Instead he lowers himself carefully down and sits, head lolling back a bit as he rests.

John is by his side a moment later, unwinding the scarf from his throat. Oh. Forgot about that. The cashmere slips over his skin, and a cool hand places itself against his forehead. "You should lie down," John says, walking away to hang the scarf on the coatrack. He glances back in time to see Sherlock shake his head stiffly. "It was less of a suggestion, more of an order," John amends, returning to the sofa. He arranges a couple of the throw pillows for support and guides Sherlock away from the back of the sofa. An unpleasant sound thrums in the back of the detective's throat at the movement, but he doesn't protest. He stretches out on his back and sighs as deeply as he dares, eyes closing of their own accord.

The other end of the sofa sinks a little under John's weight. Sherlock feels the doctor fiddling with something and cracks an eye open to see him unlacing his boots.

"Stop doctoring me," Sherlock commands.

"I'm not doctoring," John replies easily, glancing up at his charge. "I'd like to see you take your own shoes off, I'm sure it'd work out splendidly." The words are spoken with the intonation of a challenge, but it's one that Sherlock doesn't rise to. John gives him a pointed look and the detective shuts his eyes again.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep. He wants to work, he has cases that need attention – the case of the girl by the river is still pending – and sleep is so _pointless_ anyway, but something cool is being pressed against his skin and for a moment he's just comfortable enough that he… simply… drops off.

Some time later, he is only borderline aware that John is speaking to him. John's fingers press into his shoulder, encouraging him upright. Sherlock groans at the pain caused by the movement, and John murmurs something intended to be comforting, before pushing two tablets into Sherlock's palm. He squints down at the medicines, unsure. One of them is the antibiotic for the pneumonia – fine – but the other…?

"Paracetamol," John answers the question Sherlock hasn't yet asked. "It'll help to bring down your fever and take the edge off the pain."

For a moment – just a moment – Sherlock considers arguing. Not because he thinks paracetamol poses any sort of risk to his sobriety, but because it's just the Sherlock thing to do. He changes his mind at the last moment. Nope. Not worth it. No sense wasting energy on a pointless endeavour. He tosses back both pills with the tea John is offering. He falls asleep sitting up only a few minutes later.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry if this chapter is disproportionate to the other one. Wanted to get it all done. Also, took some liberties with mobile phone records / gps tracking. All I know is, my mum can track where I am at any time via my mobile (twenty-three, I am, and she still does this!) and can save it to a map on her PC, so… I donno, maybe that's what's going on here. It's not important! This isn't a case!fic, it's a sick!fic, so please enjoy. :)**

* * *

_Cold. That is all his body registers at first. It crashes into him with the force of a speeding car, and for a moment the shock of it takes his breath away. Then his vision sharpens and he sees Lestrade some distance down the river, struggling against the current. It's dragging at him, pulling him away from John and his team on the banks, pulling him away from all hope of rescue. There is panic in his eyes. Sherlock swims with the angry churn of the river, teeth chattering already. Only there is something wrong. No matter how hard he swims, he cannot reach him. Lestrade is being pulled further and further down the rushing river, his head dipping frequently as fatigue starts to set in. Sherlock opens his mouth to shout some word of advice, some clever solution, but he can't get his breath and anything that comes out is lost to the wind anyway._

_And it's cold. So very cold._

_And Lestrade disappears under the water for a beat. Two. Three. He doesn't reappear – _

Sherlock does not wake with a start. He claws his way back to consciousness with agonising slowness, that great brain of his struggling to reboot. He feels foggy and faint, and registers sluggishly that there are cool fingers pressing into his skin. John's. He calms instantly and focuses on the touch – now at the pulse point in his wrist; now at the lymph nodes in his throat; now, so gently, at the fractured ribs; now thumbing his eyes open one at a time.

The pressure of the light against his sleepy vision elicits a groan from Sherlock. John's hands retract themselves and Sherlock is silently mournful of their departure. He blinks his eyes open and tries to focus on John's face. "What are you doing?" he asks by way of greeting. His voice is abnormally rough from the irritation in his throat and from disuse.

John is sitting on the edge of the couch upon which Sherlock has been sleeping, and now he shrugs. "Have to make sure you haven't slipped into a coma." He says this as if it's not the first time he's done so.

A frown darkens Sherlock's features. "How long have I been asleep?"

There is a pause as John glances first at his watch and then at the clock on the mantel. The momentary silence is not just so that he can figure the time; it's so that he can decide whether to tell Sherlock the truth. "Sixteen hours," he says at last. He gets to his feet swiftly to make his escape, offering "Tea?" at the same time that Sherlock says –

"What!" And then Sherlock is trying to extricate himself from the tangle of blanket and couch cushions, only that sends a lightning flash of pain down his side and he releases a strangled cry but doesn't stop what he's doing.

John's hands are on his shoulders then, pushing him back down into a supine position. "Take it easy," he's saying, and then, "Sherlock – Sherlock?"

Blackness swallows him. Just for a minute or two. It's as wonderful as it is troubling. _Easy_, repeats John's voice in his mind. What's easy about this? He has a case he should be working on and instead he's quite literally stuck here on the sofa.

John's face is wearing an expression of the utmost displeasure when Sherlock manages to crack his eyes open again. "You. Have. Pneumonia."

Obviously. "You drugged me." It's the only explanation why Sherlock would have slept a solid sixteen hours.

John looks hurt now. "I would never," he says sharply. He sits again and grabs the case file off of the coffee table, placing it in the prone detective's hands. "You're sick, Sherlock. Why your vastly intelligent brain cannot comprehend that, I will never know. But you _are_, and you agreed that if I took you home, you would do whatever I said, so – "

"We agreed?" Sherlock blinks. Struggles to recall. Is met with an error message. "I remember no such agreement."

"_Yes_," John replies firmly. "We did agree. We had a whole row right in front of the nurse. And you said, _John, I will comply with any order you give, so long as you get me out of here_. Only it was a bit more colourful than that."

Sherlock looks sour.

"I am no more pleased about being your nurse than you are to have me as one, Sherlock, but you've given me no choice. Someone has to see that you don't kill yourself." John reaches for one of the pillows that has fallen to the floor. "Can you sit up?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock nods, and pushes himself upright. John sticks a couple of the pillows behind his back and opens the case file for him. Fills him in on what the Yard has uncovered in the meantime, and lets him work for a little while, sans nicotine.

Sherlock is thoroughly cowed by the news that he has made a promise to John. He feels duty-bound to honour it. He meekly accepts tea and water and medications for his fever, and even chokes down some soup. He falls asleep in the evening with most of the river case spread out across his blanketed body.

* * *

The tile is cold beneath his hands and knees and his head is pounding, but there is a gentle voice in his ear and the warm press of a body at his left side, holding him in place. Fingers in his hair. "All right, Sherlock, that's it… Easy now…"

His eyes are watering and he is staring down into the toilet bowl, which is clouded with vomit. He does not remember coming in here to do this. His stomach heaves again at the thought.

John has a hand on his back and this time says nothing as Sherlock's stomach struggles to come up with something. There is nothing, though, and after a series of painful heaving, it finally seems to realise that and gives up. Sherlock slumps, and John catches him round the chest before he can knock himself out on the toilet bowl.

Somewhere beyond the fog of fever, Sherlock is aware that John has pushed him back against the bathroom wall. A pained moan falls from his lips as his brain registers the strain that vomiting has put on his injuries. He lets his eyes slide closed and listens to the tap running for a moment. Then there is a cold, wet flannel between his hands and Sherlock uses it to wipe his face. The flannel disappears and is replaced by a glass of water, which John makes him raise to his lips and sip from.

"Slowly," he advises when Sherlock is just a smidge too eager.

His breath comes in short, quick spurts.

"Easy," John says again. He seems to like that word. "Try to breathe normally." Hyperventilating surely won't help things.

Sherlock anchors himself to John and somehow manages the grievous effort of slowing his breathing. He opens his eyes and the room comes into sharp focus all at once.

John is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking down at him. He is wearing a jumper over his pyjamas, and is leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees. His hands hang limply between. He does not look worried or harried or upset; his expression is placid.

For some reason, this observation calms Sherlock, too. He lets his head fall forward, stretching strained muscles in his neck, and passes a hand over his face. In the stillness of the washroom, the details slowly return, but they are vague and disjointed. Sherlock remembers waking in a cold sweat only an hour or two after having fallen asleep. He remembers stumbling painfully from the couch to the hallway, remembers John meeting him there and half-dragging him to the bathroom. He must have cried out or something to disturb John from whatever it was he'd been doing.

"Thank you," Sherlock says at last, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

John nods and hums his acknowledgement. "Think it was the antibiotics," he says after a moment. "We need to get something more substantial than soup in you before the next dose."

Sherlock sighs. "I cannot even conceive of food right now."

"In the morning," John agrees, then kneels in front of him. "Back to bed."

Sherlock steels himself for the excruciating journey back to the sitting room.

* * *

"…never seen him _sleep_ so much in one sitting."

"Not sure if that's alarming or comforting."

"Probably the best thing for him right now."

"Mm."

* * *

"I don't know. His alibi is going to be tough to crack, Sherlock." Lestrade is seated in an armchair. His left arm is in a sling and he's waving around the case file with the other.

John is leaning against the mantle, sipping tea.

Sherlock is – still – on the sofa. It has been two weeks since he checked himself out of the hospital. The pneumonia has mostly resolved (now reduced to a hacking cough and a runny nose), but the rib fractures still keep him from doing any serious leg work. He's periodically up and about now, but John has forbidden him from major case work, and Lestrade is backing the good doctor up on that front.

"Not at all," Sherlock says, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. He reaches across the coffee table and sifts through a few stacks of paper in disarray, wincing at the pull in his side. He slides one sheaf of paper out and hands it over to Lestrade. "He made a call at eleven-fifteen PM, from his mobile. GPS location puts him at the riverbank."

John snatches the paper out of Lestrade's hand without warning and stares at it. "How did you get this?" he asks. "This cannot be legal."

"I don't want to know," Lestrade moans.

"You don't want to know." Sherlock smiles fiendishly. "Do I even need to point out the fact I solved your case _from my bed_, while you had the whole of Scotland Yard running about the country?"

"Oh, sod off." But Lestrade is grinning. Case closed.

* * *

A month later, the three of them are staring down at a body in the morgue. Sherlock is deducing and inspecting and examining, rattling off words and random phrases that seem to have no relevance whatever to the body on the slab. Then he slams to a halt midsentence and one hand strays to the side of the metal gurney. His eyes are glassy and unfocussed. Lestrade and John exchange a _look_, and John grabs Sherlock by the back of his coat and pulls him down into a nearby chair, pressing his head down between his knees. He taps the back of Sherlock's neck with his fingertips as a silent reminder.

Sherlock takes a breath.

He's lost weight from being ill, and he still can't run far without stabbing pain in his ribcage. His stamina is shot. He gets dizzy spells. At night a residual cough rattles his chest. But all of this is temporary, and all of this is second to The Work. Especially since he has John around to remind him to do such mundane things as breathing.

When Sherlock lifts his head from the vicinity of his lap, he is smirking. It's the arrogant _I've already worked this out_ smirk that he wears when he's nearing the end of a promising case. "Tar," he states. "Tar from Cardiff." And with that he stands, claps John on the shoulder, and strides out of the room, simply expecting the others to follow.

The _look_ is exchanged again, and Lestrade can't help but laugh. He shrugs with his good shoulder and nods toward the door.

Off they go to pursue the tar from Cardiff.


End file.
